


sleep for a while more

by knoxoursavior



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hospitalization, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya, like all spies, avoid doctors like the plague. Well, at least, they do until they get caught in a huge explosion for which they may or may not be at fault. Napoleon manages to gset through it with just a broken arm, two broken ribs, and a mild concussion.</p><p>Illya, however, isn’t as lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sleep for a while more

**Author's Note:**

> written for this prompt i got on tumblr:
> 
> illya is injured on a mission like really bad, and napoleon takes care of him, but also gets quite a scare
> 
>  
> 
> thank you so much to [wintersoldieringg](http://wintersoldieringg.tumblr.com/) for reading over this and helping me improve it!!! i really appreciate it. ✿

Napoleon and Illya, like all spies, avoid doctors like the plague. Well, at least, they do until they get caught in a huge explosion for which they may or may not be at fault. Napoleon manages to gset through it with just a broken arm, two broken ribs, and a mild concussion.

Illya, however, isn’t as lucky. He has to be dragged out from underneath two thousand pounds of debris, looking so still and broken that Napoleon feels his stomach twist painfully, feels hope draining from his chest.

When Napoleon lays his head on his partner’s chest, it takes almost too long for him to hear a weak beat, barely noticeable compared to his own stuttering heart and shaky breath.

Illya’s alive, though, and that’s what’s important.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Napoleon says as he puts Illya over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Gaby will be angry at me if I don’t. Actually, she’ll be angry at _you_ for dying, so you best cooperate and survive this, Peril,” Napoleon says, his mouth set in a grim yet determined frown. The tiny fire that sparked from the destroyed wiring in the walls starts to spread around them.

“We haven’t even been on a lot of missions together. You’re not about to leave so soon,” Napoleon says, his tone kept carefully light and casual despite the lack of an audience. He struggles to sort through the debris blocking the exits with the added weight of Illya.

“Besides, I’ve one-upped you in saving your life. We got even when you saved me from that shark back in the Pacific,” Napoleon says as he deposits Illya onto the back seat of the first car he sees. He makes quick work of hotwiring it, makes even quicker work of driving through the streets of Barcelona.

“You would have liked to drive this car. She’s not quite as sleek as I’d like, of course, but even I can appreciate the way she powers through the streets,” Napoleon says wistfully. They’re minutes away from the nearest hospital. He shifts another gear up.

“Will you please get my friend some help?” Napoleon says as soon as he goes through the doors to the hospital, once again carrying Illya, but now in his arms. His usual calm is gone, his voice is loud yet shaking with worry and anxiety and, prevalently, fear. They’re foreigners in this great city who happened upon an accident, and his dear friend Illya got the worst of it. He doesn’t know what to do.

“I know you don’t like doctors. I’m sorry,” Napoleon says into Illya’s ear, his voice dropped down to a whisper. He doesn’t let go of Illya’s hand until the nurses forcibly disentangle their fingers.

“I’m his friend of four years. He’s always getting into accidents, that one. I always tell him he has the worst luck,” Napoleon says in perfectly articulated Spanish to the nurse who comes to tell him that Illya’s in surgery and that it’s going to take a few hours more. He’s stretching the truth, but only a little bit. They’ve only been friends for the better part of a year, and Illya gets into fights more than he does accidents.

“The mission’s complete. Illya’s severely injured, but he’s going to recover like he always does. Do send people to clean up our mess, would you?” Napoleon says into the phone, looking casually around the sidewalk for anything suspicious though he hopes with all the energy has left that there’s nothing to find. He’s tired and he’s had a rough couple of days stuck in the hospital, and yet all he wants to do is to go back in the tiny, uncomfortable chair by Illya’s bed and wait until his partner wakes up. Yet, the first thing Waverly says to him is that it’s going to take a while. After all, U.N.C.L.E. can only spare a handful of agents. He’d have to call in MI6 first. Napoleon’s usually so calm, and he’d usually just nod his head and bear it, but today he snaps. He tells Waverly to hurry it up in a tone so obviously scathing, wants to add how he can convince Illya to disappear with him if U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t do its best to help. Napoleon doesn’t think about how he’d go about convincing Illya, doesn’t listen to the small yet nagging part of his brain that says _seduct—_

“Thank you, doctor. I’m sure you did everything you could,” Napoleon says hollowly after the doctor comes to tell him that Illya’s in a coma. He doesn’t have to do much pretending when he turns away and sighs, or when he settles back by the bed, lays his hand on Illya’s, and just stay there for a moment, looking at Illya with a softness he hardly ever lets himself show. Later, when he falls asleep to the steady beeping of the machinery, he’s still holding Illya’s hand.

“I’m fine. There’s no one else who can stay with him and I don’t have anything I could bring back from the hotel. After all, we we’re only planning to tour around the city for a week,” Napoleon says to the nurse who comes to check on Illya. Her name is Rita, and she’s been hovering over him ever for days now, always asking if he’s alright or if he needs anything. He doesn’t, he tells her, but if she could make Illya more comfortable, he’d appreciate it. She smiles as if he’s just told her a secret, and Napoleon is stuck wondering what’s going on in her head.

“I suppose I know now what it takes to put you in a hospital. Not that I’d have any use for it. I’d much rather have you watching my back on missions,” Napoleon says as he watches the rise and fall of Illya’s chest. It’s all he ever does these days.

“Took you long enough to come. Are you here to tell me we’re finally taking Illya back to England?” Napoleon says when he wakes up to see Gaby sitting across from him, running her fingers through Illya’s unkempt hair. No, it turns out, because this hospital’s vetted for anyways. No one will come into

“I’m not going to leave him,” Napoleon says coldly when Gaby suggests that he take a break, let himself breathe for a day or two. He stands his ground until Gaby tells him how disappointed Illya will be when he finds out Napoleon hasn’t been taking care of himself. He stands up and gathers his coat grudgingly as Gaby promises to call him if anything happens.

“Can I have an _ensaladilla rusa_ taken up to my room, please? Yes, that will be all. Thank you,” Napoleon says to the hotel concierge over the phone. It’s the first thing Illya ate when they arrived in Barcelona, probably because the taste reminds him of Russia so much. The people there might not have been kind to him, but he loved his country all the same. When Napoleon puts the phone back in its place, he heaves a sigh. He misses Illya, even his biting comments about Americans and their capitalist ways.

“How is he?” Napoleon says when he comes back to the hospital a day later. He’s taken a bath, he’s dressed in fresh clothes, and he had the thought to bring Gaby a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, Gaby only shakes her head and turns back to her book.

“You sure do like your sleep, don’t you?” Napoleon says, sighing. And Illya does. He might seem like the sort of person who wakes up at five in the morning to go for a run, but really, he grumbles and covers his face with his pillow and fights anyone who tries to take away his blanket.

“He’s had worse, I’m sure. He told me himself. Yet here I am, still feeling like I messed up massively,” Napoleon says. It’s been two months. He knows all of the nurses assigned to their wing by now, and they’ve all fussed over him and told him how much of a darling he’s being. After all, most of them think that Gaby’s Illya’s girlfriend, and yet he’s the one who’s by his side 24/7. Napoleon says most because, well, there are those like Rita who have a different idea about things. He doesn’t think about how he likes their version of the story better.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Napoleon says when finally, _finally,_ Illya wakes up. It happens on a Tuesday, two months, one week, and six days after the day he gets injured. Napoleon has never felt so relieved.

“Never do that again,” Napoleon says as they walk out of the hospital. He hopes he never has to come back here ever again, though he’s going to make sure he sends Rita a postcard every now and then.

“I’ll draw you a bath and cook you some lamb. What do you say, dear Illya? Feeling too sore?” Napoleon says as he eases up on the clutch. _Cowboy_ , he hears. It’s just a mumble, scratchy and barely audible, and yet it makes him relax, makes him realize how tense he was. _Napoleon_ , Illya continues. When Napoleon finally hears the engine rev, he turns to look at Illya—tired, with dark circles under his eyes, and his head already drooping against the window, but still the same strong, unyielding, and beautiful Illya.

“Good. I make a mean roast,” Napoleon says, his voice quiet as Illya starts to fall asleep again. When his eyes flutter close, Napoleon turns back to the road. He can let Illya have a few more hours of sleep, just this time.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [tumblr](http://connerkent.tk/)!


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